Antonio Tabucchi - Little misunderstandings of no importance - stories

“Incredible,” she said after a minute or two, “only three weeks to shoot a film, ridiculous, I call it. We’ve done some scenes only once.”

“That’s avant-garde,” he said, smiling. “Fake realism, cinema-verite, they call it. Today’s production costs are high, so they do everything in a hurry.” He was making bread crumbs into little balls and lining them up in front of his plate. “Anghelopoulos,” he said ironically. “He’d like to do a film like O Thiassos, a play within a play, with us acting ourselves. Period songs and accessories and transitional sequences, all very well, but what’s to take the place of myth and tragedy?”

The waiter brought on the champagne and uncorked the bottle. She raised her glass as if in a toast. Her eyes were malicious and shiny, full of reflections.

“Melodrama,” she said, “Melodrama, that’s what.” She took short sips and broke into a smile. “That’s why he wanted the acting overdone. We had to be caricatures of ourselves.”

He raised his glass in return. “Then hurrah for melodrama!” he said. “Sophocles, Shakespeare, Racine, they all go in for it. That’s what I’ve been up to myself all these years.”

“Talk to me about yourself,” she said.

“Do you mean it?”

“I do.”

“I have a farm in Provence, and I go there when I can. The countryside is just hilly enough, people are welcoming, and I like horses.”

He made more bread-crumb balls, two circles of them around a glass, and then he moved one behind the other as if he were playing patience.

“That’s not what I meant,” she said.

He called the waiter and ordered another bottle of champagne.

“I teach at the Academy of Dramatic Arts,” he said. “My life’s made up of Creon, Macbeth, Henry VIII.” He gave a guilty smile. “Hardhearted fellows, all.”

She looked at him intently, with a concentrated, almost anxious air.

“What about films?” she asked.

“Five years ago I was in a mystery story. I played an American private detective, just three scenes, and then they bumped me off in an elevator. But in the titles they ran my name in capital letters… ‘With the participation of…’”

“You’re a myth,” she said emphatically.

“A leftover,” he demurred. “I’m this butt between my lips, see…” He put on a hard, desperate expression and let the smoke from the cigarette hanging between his lips cover his face.

“Don’t play Eddie!” she said, laughing.

“But I am Eddie,” he muttered, pulling an imaginary hat over his eyes. He refilled the glasses and raised his.

“To films and filmmaking!”

“If we go on like this we’ll be drunk when we go back to the set, Eddie.” She stressed the name, and there was a malicious glint in her eyes.

He took off the imaginary hat and laid it over his heart.

“Better that way. We’ll be more melodramatic.”

For a sweet they had ordered ice-cream with hot chocolate sauce. The waiter arrived with a triumphal air, bearing a tray with ice-creams in one hand and the steaming chocolate sauce in the other. While serving them he asked, timidly but coyly, if they would honour him with their autographs on a menu and shot them a gratified smile when they assented.

The ice-cream was in the shape of a flower, with deep red cherries at the centre of the corolla. He picked one of these up with his fingers and carried it to his mouth.

“Look here,” he said. “Let’s change the ending.”

She looked at him, seemingly perplexed, but perhaps her look signified that she knew what he was driving at and was merely awaiting confirmation.

“Don’t go,” he said. “Stay here with me.”

She lowered her eyes to her plate as if in embarrassment.

“Please,” sh: said, “please.”

“You’re talking the way you do in the film,” he said. “That’s the exact line.”

“We’re not in a film now,” she said, almost resentfully. “Stop playing your part; you’re overdoing it.”

He made a gesture that seemed to signify dropping the whole thing.

“But I love you,” he said in a low voice.

She put on a teasing tone.

“Of course,” she said, in slightly haughty fashion, “in the film.”

“It’s the same thing,” he said. “It’s all a film.”

“All what’s a film?”

“Everything.” He stretched his hand across the table and squeezed hers. “Let’s run the film backwards and go back to the beginning.”

She looked at him as if she didn’t have the courage to reply. She let him stroke her hand and stroked his in return.

“You’ve forgotten the title of the film,” she said, trying for a quick retort. “Toint of No Return.’”

The waiter arrived, beaming and waving a menu for them to autograph.

“You’re mad!” she said laughing, but letting him pull her along. “They’ll be furious.”

He pulled her onto the pier and quickened his steps.

“Let them be furious,” he said. “Let that cock-of-the-walk wait. Waiting makes for inspiration.”

There were no more than a dozen people on the boat, scattered on the benches in the cabin and on the iron seats, painted white, at the stern. Their dress and casual behaviour marked them as local people, used to this crossing. Three women were carrying plastic bags bearing the name of a well-known shop. Plainly they had come from villages on the perimeter of the bay to make purchases in the town. The employee who punched the tickets was wearing blue trousers and a white shirt with the company seal sewed onto it. The actor asked how long it would take to make the round trip. The ticket-collector made a sweeping gesture and enumerated the villages where they would be stopping. He was a young man with a blond moustache and a strong local accent.

“About an hour and a half,” he said, “but if you’re in a hurry, there’s a larger boat which returns to the mainland from our first stop, just after we arrive, and will bring you back in forty minutes.”

He pointed to the first village on the north side of the bay.

She still seemed undecided, torn between doubt and temptation.

“They’ll be furious,” she repeated. “They wanted to wrap it up by evening.”

He shrugged his shoulders and threw up his hands.

“If we don’t finish today we’ll finish tomorrow,” he countered. “We’re paid for the job, not by the hour, so we can surely take an extra half-day.”

“I’ve a plane for New York tomorrow,” she said. “I made a reservation, and my daughter will be waiting for me.”

“Lady, make up your mind,” said the ticket-collector. “We have to push off.”

A whistle blew twice and a sailor started to release the mooring rope. The ticket-collector pulled out his pad and tore off two tickets.

“You’ll be better off at the bow,” he remarked. “There’s a bit of breeze, but you won’t feel the rolling.”

The seats were all free, but they leaned on the low railing and looked at the scene around them. The boat drew away from the pier and gathered speed. From a slight distance the town revealed its exact layout, with the old houses falling into an unexpected and graceful geometrical pattern.

“It’s more beautiful viewed from the sea,” she observed. She held down her windblown hair with one hand, and red spots had appeared on her cheekbones.

“You’re the beauty,” he said, “at sea, on land, and wherever.”

She laughed and searched her bag for a scarf.

“You’ve turned very gallant,” she said. “Once upon a time you weren’t like that at all.”

“Once upon a time I was stupid, stupid and childish.”

“Actually, you seem more childish to me now than then. Forgive me for saying so, but that’s what I think.”